


Menace in Cadence

by deanstheman



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gun Violence, Judges have small roles in judge capacity only (no personal plotlines for them nor Ryan), No Real Contestants appear in this fic, OC as American Idol Contestant, So not a lot of RPF in this, Violence & Dangerous Situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanstheman/pseuds/deanstheman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an original action-drama fic, just with an AMERICAN IDOL backdrop/setting.</p><p>For the first time in her life, Jamie is happy. As a fiddler in a lively bar band, she gets to travel across the country and play music every night with people she loves. But when her dark past finally catches up with her, her secrets may cost those people everything, including their lives. The Lannan brothers don't deserve to suffer the horrific fate she always feared would be hers, but if she can't win America's votes, they might. </p><p>(This was originally a SUPERNATURAL AU but got so AU that I couldn't really call it Supernatural anymore.  But just in case you are reading this and think the Lannan brothers seem an awful lot like the Winchester brothers... that's why.  If you want to know what Dash and Mason look like, look up Sam and Dean Winchester.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sin of Secrets

This is her favorite part of the day. The magical moment where her past completely disappears, swallowed up in the blissful energy of the here and now. In the encompassing thrum of music. In the energy of the crowd. In the crescendo of the violin in her hands that takes complete control of her body and mind, invigorating and thrilling her like nothing else she can imagine.

Her long hair whips her face as she jerks and twists and hops. Through a blur of blonde, she catches sight of the brothers at the front of the stage. Mason and Dash in their element, belting out the melody into their microphones in perfect unison, charming and completely enthralling the small crowd of the bar.

A wild spin gives her a glimpse of young Landry on stage-left, his normally nerdy exterior morphing into a shimmering mass of cool as he jumps up and down, plucking furiously at his bass. The fierce pounding of Terrence's drums behind him pushes a fast tempo that sets the whole room ablaze with energy.

Yeah, definitely her favorite part of the day.

The faces of the audience are blurred but she can see the bodies moving and the hands in the air. She knows exactly what they are experiencing. She was one of them, once. Just a girl in a bar, out for a few drinks with friends and finding herself unexpectedly and wholly captivated by the Lannan brothers on stage.

Well, _brother_. In her case.

"When I neeeeded youuu…" She harmonizes into her microphone, looking up just in time to catch the wink and the smile Mason sends her way. Her heart does its usual little flip at the private moment but then her foot is stomping, her hair flying, her bow a blur of motion, and Mason turns to belt into his own microphone as they hit the final chorus.

This is the second to last song on the set list tonight, a Rogues of Rampart original that affects her every time they play it. Behind the intentionally deceptive words that hint of jilted love, underneath the misleading upbeat tempo and flippant tone, lies a well of hurt and pain. It's a song of a child's disappointment in a parent, something she can more than relate to. But even more affectingly, it's the work of Mason's sensitive soul. A glimpse deep inside him unlike any she's ever offered him.

Considering it's a virtually unknown song by a virtually unknown band, it's always well received and never fails to get the crowd riled. The goal of any struggling bar band is to go out with a bang, to have the audience stagger out of the bar feeling pumped and talking about the band for days to come... and hopefully dish out the ten bucks for a CD on the way out the door. This song does just that.

They wrap tonight's show with a lively cover of Saint Motel's ( _You're Just) My Type_ , led by Dash and his endless onstage energy and charisma. Although they have a lot of traditional folk and classic rock songs in their repertoire, the brothers insist on ending every performance with their own take of a current hit. She loves _My Type_ because the Rogues substitute the horns with double violins so she gets to spend most of the song face-to-face with a smiling Mason, who puts down his guitar and takes up the second violin. As talented as he is, this isn't one of his go-to instruments like it is for her and keeping in perfect sync to make this song work had been hard to master. During a practice last week, they had figured out that facing each other and holding up-close eye contact made the timing fall flawlessly into place.

And makes this far more fun… there is something intense and weirdly intimate about it, as if she and Mason are the only two in the room despite the crowd just a few feet away.

How did she ever get this lucky?

**~0~0~0~**

"Jamie! Where's Dash?"

Landry slams his palms down on the merchandise table in front of her, his face red with exertion and obvious annoyance. "He's supposed to be helping us load the gear."

Jamie has a good idea where Dash is but hesitates to tell the frustrated nineteen-year-old bass player.

"Take a guess, kid," Mason chuckles as he walks past carrying a large Marshall amp that's dragging a long chord behind it. He's on his fourth trip out the side door to where Terence's van is parked at the curb. As soon as they finish on stage, it's Jamie's job to work the Merchandise table, selling CD's and t-shirts to raise some desperately-needed traveling funds for the band, while the other four members pack the equipment into the van but Dash has developed a recent habit of spending the time 'securing company for the night', as he puts it.

Jamie laughs. "Let me guess, that little brunette in the white top with the swoop down neckline."

Mason grins, turning sideways to squeeze through the narrow doorframe. "That's the one."

She rolls her eyes. She had noticed the cute girl in the front row stealing all of Dash's attention during the band's cover of SIXX A.M.'s _Stars_ , shouting back enthusiastic "Alright's" as he sang the chorus directly at her. _Real_ s _ubtle_. He had held her gaze and even pointed and winked at her during their closing number so it isn't that surprising he sought her out as soon as the band finished on stage.

Landry huffs loudly and runs a hand through his wildly untameable curls. "Unbelievable," he mumbles before heading back in to help Terrence pack the drum kit.

Jamie glances towards the bar to see Dash weaving his way through the thinning, mostly-drunk crowd. He has an arm wrapped tightly around the shoulders of the brunette in the white top and Jamie has to suppress an amused laugh at the sight because Dash is freakishly tall with massively broad shoulders and the girl is slim and five-two at most. He completely dwarfs her.

"Hey, Jamie," he greets her, his eyes flicking behind his uncut bangs over to the stage beyond her merch table. She could swear a fleeting expression of wariness crosses his face and realizes he is deliberately avoiding the rest of the band. He knows he's going to catch shit for bailing on his share of the work tonight.

"Hey, Dash," she replies teasingly. "The guys were looking for you."

"Uh, can you tell Mase I'll see him in the morning?"

"What do you mean?" she asks with feigned innocence. "Where are you going?"

His face tightens and he gives her a ' _please don't embarrass me_ ' expression.

"He's coming home with me," the girl supplies, rubbing a hand in circles across the well-defined set of abs that Dash's tight t-shirt does nothing to hide.

"Um, this is Stacey," Dash supplies awkwardly.

"Hi Stacey," Jamie says, unable to hide her mocking tone.

"Hi. You're really good on the fiddle. And that little guitar thing you played those couple of songs, too."

"Oh, thanks," she acknowledges graciously. "And it's a mandolin." She decides to cut Dash a break and peers up at him. "We hit the road at eight A.M., remember."

"I'll be back by then."

"Have fun."

Stacey chimes in again with a giggle. "Don't worry, he will."

"I'm sure that's true," Jamie manages with a straight face. "Dash loves his fans."

"Night, Jamie," he grates. "Oh, speaking of fans, your guy in the suit was here tonight."

Jamie's heart tightens in her chest. "Wh-what?"

"That guy in the suit I told you about last weekend, in Cincinnati? He was back. I saw him here tonight." It's his turn to return the teasing look, having no clue the affect that what he's saying is having on her. "I mean, following us from Cincinnati to St. Louis? That's not a fan, Jamie. That's a stalker."

"Couldn't have been the same guy," Jamie stammers, forcing her voice to stay even, trying desperately to hide her spike of fear at the revelation. She hadn't seen the man Dash had spotted at the gig last weekend but the way he had described him... staring at her, serious expression, expensive suit, lurking in the back of a seedy club...

No, it can't be. They can't have found her.

"Dash! What the Hell, man?"

She sees Dash wince at the sound of his big brother's voice behind him.

"I take it me and Jamie got Trudy to ourselves again tonight?" Mason continues, giving Stacey a slightly disapproving once-over as he reaches the table.

"Trudy?" Stacey queries, looking confused.

"Trudy's our RV," Dash explains absently before turning to his brother. "Yeah, you know..." He trails off, stealing a glance at Jamie.

Mason just nods. "Cool. Just be back by eight. We gotta get to Durham by suppertime."

"I'll be there."

"Oh, and the guy from that bar in Louisville called," Mason adds as Dash starts to leave. "We got the gig. Saturday night, three weeks from tomorrow."

Dash scrunches up his face. "You mean the Saddle 'N' Spur? Mase, that's a country bar. Like full-on country."

"It's a gig."

"But we don't do country. We've got an acoustic set and an electric set. We can tweak each of 'em to suit the audience but even our folk stuff isn't Taylor fucking Swift."

"Actually, she's crossed over," Jamie interjects without thinking, her mind still distracted by thoughts of a man in a suit. As founding members of the Rogues of Rampart, the band's management is handled solely by the brothers and she, Terrence, and Landry rarely question their decisions. Especially her, being the newest member who joined them less than eight months ago. Creatively, they all have their say, but not when it comes to the band's business.

"Sorry," she retracts quickly, not wanting to get in between the brothers on a managerial matter.

Mason waves a dismissive hand at his little brother. "Don't sweat it. We'll throw in _Thunder Rolls_ and we'll be fine." He shoos Dash towards the door. "Go, go, go. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That doesn't rule much out," Dash snorts but heads out the front door with tiny Stacey still tucked under his arm.

**~0~0~0~**

Calling Trudy an 'RV' is being generous. She's a 1976 GMC Motorhome with twenty-six feet of tacky original decor plastered over with rock posters and band flyers. The brothers picked her up dirt cheap in New Orleans several years ago and she's served as their home ever since.

And now she's Jamie's home, too. Crowded doesn't quite explain the living situation; 'complicated' would be a better word. 'Cozy' and 'comfortable' work too... but so does 'fish bowl'.

Trudy's side door opens to a seating area with a fold-away table tucked in right behind the swivelling driver and passenger seats. This is where the band eats most of their meals and jams for hours on end and is, by far, the most used portion of the motorhome. The narrow, galley kitchen and currently-out-of-order bathroom sit across from the three-foot-wide bedroom housing nothing but a narrow bunk bed. Dash sleeps on the bottom bunk and the top is piled to the ceiling with a jumble of clothes, instruments, magazines, and whatever else gets thrown up there to avoid being tripped on. It's a small room for a big guy and doesn't lend itself well to allowing its occupant to have overnight company.

But the bedroom Dash used to sleep in, the one that takes up the full rear quarter of the motorhome, with the fold down double bed and real mattress, is now shared by Jamie and Mason. In fact, they spend most of the wind-down hours after the show tonight in there and Jamie guiltily enjoys the freedom that comes with having Trudy all to themselves. No trying to stifle moans, no trying to avoid shaking the camper too much, no having to whisper their intimate endearments, no need to put clothes back on to get up and grab a drink. She loves Dash, she really does, but it's nice to have Mason to herself for a while.

She's in the kitchen now, standing completely nude while she carefully selects the coldest of the dozen beers crammed into the small fridge. She hears a car outside and it sounds close so she pulls a quarter-size opening in the flowered curtains over the sink and peers through. Surely it can't be Terrence's van because he always parks it outside Landry's motel room. He claims it's for safety reasons, WalMart parking lots aren't always the safest places to overnight and the van holds majority of the band's equipment, but Jamie thinks it's because more often or not, kind-hearted young Landry gets a double room and Terrence usually snags the offer of the spare bed. The Rogues of Rampart manage to stay busy but their gigs barely cover their travel and food expenses. Landry, who gets financial support from his well-to-do parents back in Clarksville, Maryland, is the only member who can afford a motel room on a regular basis.

It's not the van outside. It's a sleek, black, expensive-looking sedan and Jamie's mind can't help but flash back to Dash's description of the man in the suit. But the car keeps going, the red taillights reaching the edge of the parking lot and turning left out onto the main road. She closes her eyes and lets out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

"You're being paranoid," she chastises under her breath. "It's been ten years. He's long forgotten you."

She climbs back onto the bed, crawling up to Mason and handing him an open Coors Light. He's lying on top of the covers in nothing but his boxers and he grunts his pleasure at the feel of the cold bottle in his hand. "Thanks, hon."

She sighs, draping an arm over him and snuggling in close while her mind still entertains dark thoughts.

She feels a low chuckle rumble through his chest."What's bothering you?" he asks, a smile apparent in his voice.

He knows her too well. She exhales slowly and debates her answer. She hasn't told him yet. Mostly because ninety-nine percent of the time she convinces herself he doesn't ever have to know. Who she was doesn't matter to who she is now. She's simple, plain, boring Jamie Brown from Bend, Oregon. Has been since she was fourteen years old. That's who she is with Mason and who they are together is all that counts now.

But then there's that other one percent of the time. The moments when she thinks she should just go for it, shed the burden of the secret she's keeping. It's not like he's going to blame her for what her father is. It's not like he's going to dump her and kick her out of the band because she shares DNA with a monster. In fact, of all the people in the world she could tell, Mason would understand. She knows he and Dash grew up in an environment of domestic abuse. Mason doesn't talk about it much but there are times when he opens up a little, hushed intimate moments when he gives her glimpses into his past.

She should return the trust.

But her situation is different, she justifies. Her father is different… he's so much more than a mean drunk.

Besides, keeping her secret is so intertwined with her survival instincts, she can never bring herself to form the words. So, as usual, she deflects.

"Aren't you worried about Dash?" she says finally, lifting her head to rest her chin on Mason's bare chest so she can peer into his green eyes. "I get he's young and the appeal of the whole rock star thing but... this is the fifth night in a row he's gone home with a different girl. I hope he's using protection."

Mason laughs out loud and bends up to press a fond kiss to her forehead before flopping back down again. "You worry too much."

"Don't you? He's _your_ baby brother."

"First off, he's twenty-three years old and six-foot-four. He's not my 'baby' anything. Second, the fact that you believe his whole 'I got a girl in every port' thing would go right to his big, inflated ego." He laughs again, swinging his arm up so Jamie can settle into the crook of his shoulder. "It was my birthday last Monday, remember?"

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with Dash?"

"He offered to give us Trudy for the week. Give us some space, some private time. It's his present to me." He looks down at her, the whites of his teeth gleaming in the ray of light from the WalMart sign slipping through the tiny crack above the curtains. "He's been crashing in Terrence's van most nights. Half the girls were made up."

Jamie gasps. "What? That's even worse!"

"Worse than a steady stream of slutty groupies?" Mason's laughing at her again.

"No, worse because Trudy's his home and he's sleeping in a van full of equipment because I'm in his space," she elaborates.

Mason looked confused. "The bunk's his space. This is ours."

"Only since I moved in."

"Which he's fine with."

"Is he?"

"Of course." It's Mason's turn to look confused. "Why? Has he said something?"

Jamie shakes her head. "No," she says honestly.

He presses another kiss to her forehead and smiles. "Like I said, you worry too much."

She relaxes against him and hums contentedly on her exhale. How is he always so damn laid back and easy-going? How does he always make her feel like everything is going to be alright with just a few sweet words and a smile? His gentle optimism always manages to calm her fears, quash her worries, and most importantly, make her feel safe. Like nothing bad could ever happen when she's with him.

"Dash said that guy in the suit from Cincinnati was at the show tonight," she blurts.

He nods slowly and takes a sip of his beer. "Yeah, I saw him."

"Really?" She arches a fretful eyebrow. "I didn't."

"That's 'cause you always hide out at the back of the stage," he scolds her mockingly. "Your voice is too good to be burying in harmonies and choruses. But we're wearing you down. We'll have you taking lead on a song before the year's out or my name's not Mason Lannan."

"Not gonna happen." She frowns and adds quietly "I don't like the attention."

"Seems like you got the attention anyway, what with your stalker in the suit an' all," he teases. "Couldn't take his eyes off you. Not that I blame him."

She tenses and he clearly picks up on it because he sets his beer down on the bedside table and rolls to face her, cupping her cheek in his large hand. "He's harmless, James," he assures her soothingly. "You're in a band. A little bit of extra attention comes with the territory."

But she doesn't want extra attention. She's spent the last ten years trying to avoid extra attention. Until Mason and his passion and his promises came along and she couldn't resist throwing caution to the wind and joining a fucking _band_ of all things.

"Besides," he continues, "you have four full-time bodyguards ready to kick his ass if he tries anything." He laughs again. "You should embrace it all. I mean, not like _Dash_ embraces it but at least try to enjoy it a little."

She swallows and forces the ridiculous and paranoid nervousness away. "You've got stalkers too," she says, trying to sound teasing.

Mason grins. "'Course. Tons. Only mine are called groupies and they do most of the embracing."

"You're such an ass." The dark edges of her mood slip away and she hauls the blanket up over them, curling up close and nuzzling into his neck. Somehow he's managed to do it again, to make everything alright, and when she falls asleep fifteen minutes later, her dreams are happy and peaceful.

**~0~0~0~**

She awakens with a start, Mason's fingers wrapping around her wrist in and almost painfully tight grip. The light is dim but she can make him out, hovering above her and pressing a finger to his lips in a 'hush' gesture. She nods and he moves away to crawl off the foot of the bed, dressed in nothing but his boxers. He is reaching for the tire iron propped up next to the bathroom door when she hears what must have woken him... a firm rattle of the outside door knob.

She pulls the sheet up to cover her chest, wishing she had some clothes on. It isn't the first time Trudy has caught the attention of curious passer-bys, sitting all alone at the edge of an empty WalMart parking lot looking like an easy target, but it still never fails to make Jamie's heart pound in fear.

"Ho, someone's in here!" Mason calls out, his deep voice even and fearless. Most of the time that's all it takes, the sound of a voice inside enough to discourage any thoughts of entering.

The air is tense as the pair hold their breath, waiting for the usual mumbled apology and welcome sound of footsteps retreating. They don't hear either.

She sees Mason tighten his grip on the tire iron and walk towards the door.

"No, Mason, no," she whispers urgently but then the door flies open with a loud bang and chaos erupts. She screams when she sees two large, dark silhouettes charging inside. "MASON!"

She scrambles forward, trying to disentangle her feet from the sheets and keep her chest covered at the same time. The camper is shaking and the unmistakable sounds of a fight are coming from the front sitting area. The slapping sound of punches landing on skin, thuds as bodies connect with furniture, unfamiliar voices mixed with Mason's, grunting and cursing.

She's off the bed and in the narrow galleyway, barely aware the sheet is still held firmly to her chest as she rushes forward. Her heart lurches and she falters in her charge when a third man enters, stepping through Trudy's doorway with all the calmness of a Sunday stroll. Mason comes into view behind the latest intruder, slamming backwards into the cabinet by the stove only to push off immediately and throw a punch at the closest of the men before him.

"Mason!" she screams again, trying to quell her panic long enough to remember where she put her phone last night and simultaneously searching for something to use as a weapon.

Mason suddenly screams out in pain and drops heavily to the motorhome's vinyl floor, curling in on himself and twitching.

"Mason!" Jamie screams again, this time her voice giving out in sheer horror. She tries to rush forward again but the third man steps into her path. She barely gives him notice, trying to shove her way past him, desperate to get to Mason. The way he dropped… she's terrified that he's been stabbed or shot.

The third man is not allowing her to pass, using his considerable size to block her way in the confined space of the motorhome.

"Isabella, stop," he says calmly.

The name he uses punches the breath from her body and she freezes. The hand not holding the sheet up reaches out to grasp the counter in an effort to steady herself while she drags her gaze upwards to the face of man in her way.

He's tall with dark hair, forty-something, and for the first time she realizes he's wearing a suit.

"We just tazered him," he's saying, gesturing to Mason on the floor behind him. "He'll be fine in a minute or two."

"How do you..." She starts to ask how he knows her name, her _real_ name, when she realizes she doesn't have to ask that question. It's been ten years - she was only fourteen the last time she saw him and he was younger and didn't have a beard - but she recognizes him. It's him. It's definitely him.

Marco Burani. Her father's right-hand man.

She just stares dumbly at him for the next few seconds, a myriad of thoughts and emotions racing through her mind. Finally she swallows and tightens her grip on the bunched sheet at her chest.

"Let me see him," she says, pointing to Mason. Her voice is but a breathy whisper so she steels herself and tries again. "Let me see him."

Uncle Marco ... no, he's just _Marco_ now... Marco shakes his head. "In good time, Isabella. You and I have some business to discuss."

But Jamie can't think past Mason lying still on the camper floor, groaning weakly. "Let me see him." She tries to get around Marco again and he stops her again, this time with a steely grip around her upper arm that has her crying out in pain.

"Damnit, girl, listen to me when I'm talking to you!"

She whimpers at the threatening tone and takes a few steps backwards, childhood memories flooding back to her.

"I'm here to deliver a message from your father."

Her heart lurches and her eyes dart to the camper's open door behind him.

"He's not here," Marco assures her quickly.

"How'd you find me?" she stammers.

He gives her a disapproving look. "You got sloppy. Joining a band? How long did you think it would be before someone recognized you and word got back to Tommy? We found you weeks ago."

Weeks ago? Why are they just coming for her now?

"Are you here to kill me?"

"No."

"I'm not going back to New York."

Marco snorts. "He doesn't want you to. He's finally figured out you were far more trouble than you were worth. You and your mother."

"Mom died a year ago."

"We know that too."

"Then what do you want?"

"Like I said, we have business to discuss."

He beckons to the two men behind him and Jamie cranes her neck to peer past him while he's distracted, still needing that assurance Mason is okay. She sees he has rolled onto his stomach and is shakily pushing himself up onto his hands and knees.

Marco pulls his foot back and lands a vicious kick in Mason's stomach, eliciting a pained grunt from the downed man and a scream of panic from Jamie.

"Cuff him and gag him," Marco orders.

"What? Why? No!" Jamie scrambles to get past Marco once more but he backhands her fiercely across the face. She tumbles backwards and the impact with the floor sends a jarring pain shooting up through her hip. She ignores it and struggles to get back up, aware Mason is becoming more animated as he wrestles the two men trying to slap metal handcuffs around his wrists.

"Leave him alone!" she half yells, half pleads, terrified of what their plans are for him. "Leave him alone! Mason!"

"Jammm..." His raspy attempt at her name is cut off by the dirty rag that is shoved in his mouth. She watches in horror as the goons wrap duct tape around it. He's pulled roughly up to his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back and a goon's firm hand on each shoulder.

"Isabella, shut up," Marco snaps.

It's only then she realizes she's crying and she quiets instantly, her eyes still locked on Mason's. He looks confused, no surprise there, ... and angry, that's rare for him,... and scared. She's never seen him scared before.

"Look at me." Marco's voice is dangerous now.

She obeys immediately, bunching the edge of the slipping sheet back up in front of her as she stands up straight.

"Now, you're going to stay quiet and listen to what I have to say. Don't make me pull out my gun. Trust me, it wouldn't end well for your boyfriend. Got it?"

Jamie nods emphatically, her voice completely lost in her terror.

"Good." The sudden picture of calm, Marco pulls a manila envelope out of a pocket inside his suit jacket and holds it out to her. "Open this after I'm gone. It contains all the particulars you'll need."

She takes it with trembling hands and lays it on the kitchen counter, not daring to peek inside.

"Your father is facing some difficulties with work," he explains slowly. "Ours is a competitive industry and as I'm sure your aware, Tommy doesn't deal well with competition or adversaries."

One of the men standing next to Mason lets out a snort. "That's not exactly true, Burani. He deals with 'em clean and swift-like."

The second man guffaws and the two laugh heartily at the joke that has Jamie's insides twisting in a painful knot. She remembers how her father dealt with people who crossed him or challenged him.

Even Marco smiles. "Yes he does," he agrees, turning back to Jamie. "Or he _did_. There've been a lot of unfortunate repercussions in this particular rivalry and that tends to attract unwanted attention from certain authorities. That's where you come in, Isabella."

Translation, her father has killed too many people and the cops are getting nosey. What can that possibly have to do with her?

"A wager has been placed. Winner takes all, loser backs down. No muss, no fuss, no bodies, no cops." He pauses and Jamie gets the sudden feeling Marco isn't fully on board with whatever this is all about.

"You can sing, Isabella. You've always been very good, just like your mother. I remember how well you sang as a child. Turns out, your father's adversary has a son who can also sing. To make a long story short, a little bit of bragging at a recent church event led to some insults, some name-calling, some punches, and finally, to a wager. So you and this mook's boy are going to join American Idol and whoever's kid gets the farthest, wins."

Jamie just stares at him in confusion and disbelief, trying to make sense of what he had just said.

"That's crazy," she says finally. "That's crazy. My dad's fucking crazy."

He slaps her face before she can even flinch. "Watch your mouth."

Pressing her hand to her cheek to lessen the sting, she looks back up at him and nods meekly. "Okay," she says. "Okay, I'll do what you want. I'll try out."

"No, you won't just _try out,_ " Marco says coldly. "You'll win. At the very least, beat the little brat. Remember, you _have_ _to_ get further than him."

Jamie nods again, eager to convince them she will do what they want, no matter how insane it is, so they'll just hurry up and leave. "I can do that," she assures him. "Tell my dad I promise, I'll win his bet for him."

"I believe you," Marco replies with a shrug. "I know you'll sing your damn heart out to win this thing because I'm going to take a little insurance."

"Wh-what do you m-mean?" Jamie stammers, already suspecting what's coming next but pleading to God that she's wrong.

"Plain and simple. If you win, Mason here goes free. You lose, he dies." Marco jerks his chin at the two men behind him. "Put him in the trunk."

"NO!" Jamie all out panics, leaping at Marco, punching and clawing and trying to get past him to Mason, who's suddenly being manhandled towards the door. Mason's kicking and shoving but with his hands cuffed behind his back, he's no match for the two large men. Jamie grows more and more frantic as they hit him repeatedly to get him lax enough to muscle through the narrow doorway and his muffled grunts turn to semi-conscious moans.

She's screaming his name the whole time he's being dragged to the car and when she hears the thud of the trunk closing, her knees give out. She lands on the floor with a thud. She feels tears on her face and her breath is coming out in gasping sobs. Marco stands in the doorway, blocking her exit, his expression cold and impassive.

Finally he stoops to pick up the fallen sheet from the floor and drops it in her lap. "Cover up," he deadpans. "And splash some water on your face. It's going red and you've got an audition tomorrow. I probably shouldn't have hit you so hard."

"Please," she whispers, looking up at him imploringly from where she is sitting on the floor. "I'll do what you want. You don't have to take him."

"I think we do. You disappeared for ten years, Isabella. What's to stop you from doing it again?"

"I promise I won't."

"This way I know you won't. And this way I know you won't involve the police. You can't tell anyone about our arrangement, understand? Not the cops, not your best friend, not your little bandmates and especially not the brat you're going to beat. As far as anyone is concerned, you're just Jamie Brown and you want to be the next Rihanna fucking pop star because you like to sing." His look hardens. "Your father is a man of his word. You know that. If you get farther than the brat, you know he'll hold up his end of the bargain and let your boyfriend go."

He moves away but turns back when he is on Trudy's metal step in the doorway. "I don't think I have to spell out what happens if you disobey. I doubt you've forgotten Jack."

Another loud sob escapes her. No she hasn't forgotten Jack. As if she could ever forget Jack.

"Just beat this other kid, and you'll get your boyfriend back in one piece. All the information you need is in the envelope."

And with that he's gone, closing the door with a loud smack behind him. She pushes to her feet and rushes to the window, peering out in time to see Marco's silhouette sinking into the passenger seat of a black sedan and the car driving off. She stares at the red tail lights, picturing Mason beaten, tied-up, and gagged in the trunk right behind them and thinks for a second she is going to throw up.

She swallows the urge down but her breath is coming in ragged pants and she clamps her hands to the sides of her head in a strained effort to think clearly.

_What should she do?_

Call the police? No, she can't disobey. They would shoot Mason if they even caught a whiff of police.

Start up Trudy and follow them? No, she would never keep up and that would only get Mason killed.

Oh God, she is going to get Mason killed. Mason is going to die and it's all her fault. Oh God, no. God, no. No.

_What should she do?_

She makes a dash for the bedroom, crawling up the bed to snatch her cell of the bedside table. Her fingers are trembling uncontrollably as she fumbles through the screen touches and finally presses the phone to her ear, trying to catch her breath while it rings.

_"Nnnngh, this better be good. It's four-fucking-thirty in the morning."_

"Dash? Dash, I need you to come home. It's Mason."

**~0~0~0~**

**T.B.C...**


	2. The Audition

**CHAPTER 2 - The Audition**

Dawn is kissing the sky atop the trees lining the left side of interstate and Dash is quiet. Hasn't uttered a word for half an hour now. His fingers are wrapped around Trudy's steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white and he's just staring grimly ahead. From the passenger seat, Jamie can see twitches of his cheekbones indicative of clenched teeth and knows he is struggling to keep it together. Her guilt spikes.

She sighs and digs back into the manila envelope Marco left her, as if going over the American Idol registration forms or audition rules one more time will relieve any of the tension in the motorhome or make Mason's plight any less real. If anything, reading the list of offenses that are grounds for expulsion from the competition only makes the knot in her stomach tighten, especially the one about giving a false name or social security number. If they don't accept her, Mason's as good as…

_Stop doing that._

She needs to stop mentally listing all the ways Mason could end up dead. It's not going to happen. It _can't_ happen. She and Mom outsmarted her father once before and made a clean getaway; she can do it again this time.

Just not today. Today she barely has time to think. With the last audition of the season starting at nine-thirty this morning, she and Dash only have four and a half hours to make the five-hour drive to Nashville in time to register.

She just has to get through this first audition round, then they'll have time to breathe and to figure out how to get Mason back. It took every ounce of conviction she could muster to convince Dash not to go straight to the police, even more for him not to tell Terrence and Landry. She'll never forget the look of horror on his face and the fear in his eyes during her explanation of the situation. At the mention of handcuffs and guns in the context of restraining and threatening his big brother. At her description of the effects of the Taser. At the admission of what her father does for a living…

But fear had quickly turned to anger and an angry Lannan is a force to be reckoned with, especially when it comes to protecting the other Lannan. In the blink of an eye, Dash had gone from sitting in stunned silence to a hurricane-force whirlwind of panic and questions and accusations.

She had sat slumped on Trudy's version of a couch through the tirade, answering him quietly and honestly until she finally convinced him they had to get on the road. She remembers Marco specifically said not to tell anyone, including 'her little bandmates', but Mason and Dash are inseparable, closer than any siblings she has ever met by far. There was no chance of slipping one's absence by the other, no matter what story she might have been able to come up with. She'd had no choice but to tell Dash.

Besides, she can't do this alone.

"What did you say your dad's name was again?" Dash finally breaks the silence, his voice terse.

"Tommy Tavarone. They call him Tommy Two-Shot. Or they used to, at least. I'm sure you can imagine why."

"And he's a mobster. Like Don Corleone kind of mobster. Horse heads and concrete shoes, the whole nine."

She just nods. _Close enough_.

"And your name isn't Jamie Brown."

He isn't phrasing anything as a question.

"No."

"What is it?"

She sighs, reluctant to say the name aloud. "Isabella. I was born Isabella Francesca Tavarone."

He keeps staring out the front window, not once throwing her even a sideways glance. "Does Mase know?"

"No." She winces and rubs her temples. "Well, he probably does now," she adds meekly.

He purses his lips but finally graces her with some eye contact and she is relieved to see his expression soften ever so slightly.

"I've been thinking," he says slowly. "If you get through to the next round and win one of these 'ticket to Hollywood' things, then maybe this other mobster's kid won't get through and this'll be over by sundown. I mean, you just have to get further than that one other guy, right? Then they give Mason back. They let him go."

"Yeah, but..." She hesitates. It's definitely not going to be that simple.

"But what? You said you believed them. You said your dad would keep his word."

"I did, I do. It's just that this is the last audition of the season and it's in Nashville. This other guy's in New York. Chances are, he would've auditioned there already. And if he didn't get through..."

Realization threads its way through Dash's features and his voice tightens again. "Then they would've said that," he finishes.

"Yeah. They didn't makeit sound like it was gonna end there."

"What are you gonna sing?"

"Huh?" The question catches her off guard.

"It's an audition, Jamie… or Isabella or whatever. You have to sing a song in an audition."

She hasn't thought that far ahead. "First off, it's Jamie," she tells him. "I haven't been Isabella since I was fourteen and I hated every part of being her so please, Dash, it's Jamie." She lets out a long, pensive exhale. "I don't know what to sing," she admits.

He glances at his watch. "Well, we got three hours to figure it out."

**~0~0~0~**

They are still discussing song choice two hours later when Dash's phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and groans when he looks at the display screen.

"Shit. It's Terrence. It's quarter to eight; they're probably in the WalMart parking lot wondering where the Hell we are."

"You can't tell them," Jamie reminds him urgently.

He gives her a displeased look and answers with a gruff "Hey."

Jamie holds her breath and listens to Dash's side of the conversation with growing guilt.

"Yeah, we had a family emergency and had to hit the road. Sorry, man…. We're gonna hafta cancel it. And probably all the other shows for the next few days….I know, I know, but…. I can't say what's going on. It's a family thing….Yeah, Mason and Jamie are here too. We're all fine… I get that… I know, I'm sorry. Just you and Landry stay put and I'll call you in a day or two, 'kay?... I'll send you some coin if you're… Alright. Alright. Thanks, man. Seriously, let me know if you need money though…. I feel like a piece of shit, I'm sorry…Yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks. Talk to ya soon."

He hangs up and throws Jamie another accusing look. "I hate lying to my friends."

She just nods nervously. "They bought it?"

"Yeah. I could tell he's worried but he's got no reason not to trust me, does he? He knows me and Mason would never bail without a damn good reason."

"Does he have enough money to last him a few days?"

"Landry'll cover him." He smiles. "I could hear the kid getting' all worked up in the background."

Jamie can picture the reaction of the youngest and most dramatic member of the band, most likely waving his arms in the air and tugging his unruly hair. She returns the smile but the moment is short-lived because Dash is suddenly frowning again and scrolling down through his contact list. "I gotta cancel the gig in Durham tonight. Manager's gonna be pissed."

Jamie doesn't bother apologizing again, wisely keeping quiet while Dash gets an earful from the angry bar manager in Durham.

**~0~0~0~**

They hit heavy traffic almost a mile from the stadium. There are signs and arrows and eventually they reach parking attendants directing cars into overflow parking lots.

"Holy shit, there's a lot of people here."

A short laugh escapes Jamie. "Dash, it's American Idol. Millions of people watch this show."

"And every one of them is right fucking here."

She ignores his testiness. It's not like it's unwarranted, after all. They finally do get guided into a parking space large enough for Trudy and Dash shuts the engine off with a tired sigh. He stands up to stretch. "Let's do this," he says.

Jamie frowns, looking down at the yoga pants she had thrown on after she had called Dash in the middle of the night. "Uhh, what should I wear?"

"You're asking me?"

"It's important," she points out. "There's more to being a success in this business than being able to sing. The judges are looking for the whole package thing. Someone marketable. They have to say yes or..."

Dash lifts a hand to cut her off before she voices his brother's fate. "Yeah, I know what happens."

"Sorry. But you've been in the industry longer than me. What look do I go for here?"

He studies her thoughtfully for a long minute. "Wear that red dress."

"Really?" She screws up her face. "I was thinking something more casual."

"Nah, you need to stand out. Wear something hot. That dress is hot."

She is still unsure. "I don't know, Dash. I think..."

"Mason loves you in that dress," Dash says, catching her off guard with the sentiment. "You were wearing it the first night you picked him up."

She raises an eyebrow. " _I_ picked _him_ up? Hey! _He_ picked _me_ up."

He chuckles. "Not the way I heard it."

This is the first time since this all started that there has been no trace of hostility in his voice and she relishes the small moment. It feels nice. She has been blaming and hating herself for hours and it's a relief for something other than animosity to be directed her way.

"How about my blue top with the black shorts?" she compromises.

"With those high lace-up boots? Nice." He nods approvingly and she snorts.

"Bossy much," she calls over her shoulder on her way to the bedroom to change.

"And wear your hair down," is his only reply.

Dash can be bossy but the truth is, he takes his job and the band very seriously. Far more seriously than his laid-back big brother, which is often a point of contention between them. He is ambitious and has high goals for the Rogues of Rampart where as Mason just wants to play music. Dash may have a tendency to micromanage but he does know how to read an audience and play to the band's strengths. And on a technical level, Jamie truly considers him a genius. Mason may be the heart of the band but Dash is the brain. She wishes he was more familiar with the American Idol show itself but still, she knows she would be screwed without him here.

And he _does_ have a say in this. After all, it's his brother's life on the line.

A few minutes later they are being directed by people with traffic vests and megaphones into one of several queues to get a registration number.

"Those gonna hold up?" Dash asks when she pulls out her driver's licence and birth certificate as the two pieces of ID required.

She nods. "Yeah, they should. I have a fake social security number and everything. Never put it through the test of applying for a passport but nobody's ever batted an eyelash at the bank or hospital or anything."

"Passport… wait, that's why you bailed on us when we took those five gigs in Toronto! You don't have a passport to get into Canada."

"Yeah."

"So you didn't have a sick aunt in Buffalo."

"No. Sorry, that was a lie. I have no family anywhere."

"Except your dad." The statement is bitter sounding.

"He's not family."

His expression softens again. "Right, won't argue with you there."

She casts her eyes downward and subtlety shifts herself behind Dash when a camera crew draws near, making its way up and down the long lines.

"A lot of press around," Dash observes. "Like _a lot_ of press."

"It's a prime-time TV show, Einstein," she points out, trying to sound lighthearted. "They interview people and get backstories and air them in the audition episodes."

"Huh." He frowns down at her. "So why are you hiding behind me? The exposure can't hurt your chances."

She winces and recites her automatic response. "I don't like attention." It's then she realizes there is no point in trying to keep a low profile anymore; her father already knows where she is. But it's a natural instinct now, a force of habit. Ten years of looking over her shoulder and avoiding every tourist with a selfie stick or public event with cameras on the crowd. A hard habit to break.

"It's a prime-time TV show, _Einstein_ ," Dash scoffs, pushing her out in front of him just as the American Idol interviewer and her cameraman reach them. "Ham it up."

The female interviewer in the American Idol t-shirt sticks her microphone in Dash's face.

"You here to audition today?" she chirps.

"Nope," he answers quickly, his giant hand suddenly in the small of Jamie's back, nudging her even further forward. "Just here to support my friend."

The interviewer can't hide the flash of disappointment that crosses her face as she drags her eyes from handsome Dash down to Jamie, followed by the microphone. "And why do you want to become the next American Idol?"

"Uhhh," Jamie stammers, completely unprepared and suddenly extremely nervous with a giant camera pointed right at her. "I… like to… sing?"

The woman laughs and retracts the microphone. "As good a reason as any. Good luck today, okay?" She taps her cameraman on the shoulder and with that they're moving on to the front person in the next line, some young girl who looks about twelve with pigtails and bows.

Jamie doesn't need to look up to know Dash is disappointed; she can feel it in the hand he drops unceremoniously off her back.

"Sorry," she whispers.

"Wow." He lets out a deep exhale and rolls his shoulders. "You're gonna hafta do better than that."

"I know."

"I mean… Mason…"

"I know."

They're at the registration tables now and Jamie hands over her ID, purposely avoiding eye contact with Dash as she's given an adhesive paper with her five-digit contestant number on it and instructed to stick it to the front of her shirt and not remove it until after her audition. '82311'. She thanks the staff member politely and heads off as directed towards another set of queues, Dash following silently behind her.

"I don't know how to be exciting," she admits finally, speaking in a hushed voice so the girl behind them and her eleven loud family members don't hear.

"You don't have to be exciting," Dash answers evenly. "Just interesting. Don't say' _I like to sing_ ', say 'I'm passionate about music and can't imagine my life without it'. I mean, it's still the truth, just not as boring sounding."

"This should really be you," she groans, meaning it whole-heartedly. "You would win this thing hands down. You always know what to say, how to act. You've totally got the image to get votes and you can sing like a motherfucker."

Dash snorts. "I wouldn't be caught dead trying out for this. These guys wouldn't know a real musician if it bit them in the ass."

"Some of the winners have made it huge."

"This is a pop star cookie cutter. A Britney Spears bubble machine."

"You're a musical snob, you know that?" she tells him playfully.

Dash maintains his sceptical look as he surveys the lively, colorful crowd. A person in a full feathered-chicken costume walks by, wailing a barely-recognizable version of Katy Perry's _Roar_.

"These people are crazy," he mutters, sounding annoyed.

"Anything to get on camera," Jamie agrees.

"Half of them can't even sing. I mean, it's a damn singing competitions or didn't they get the memo?"

A young man in jeans and a plaid shirt strolls by with a guitar strapped to his back and Dash's expression morphs from irritation to curiosity. "You can bring instruments in?"

Jamie nods. "Yeah, they changed the audition rules a few years ago."

"Shit. Well, that changes things."

The conversation returns to her song choice, something Jamie never imagined could be so difficult. Does she try to show range? Power? Subtly? Control? All of the above? How does she get all those things into somewhere between ten and thirty seconds? Does she go with a ballad or something upbeat? Traditional, classic, or contemporary? Does she take a guitar in? Play the piano? Violin? The choices are endless and with the stakes so damn high, she _has_ to get it right.

They are still debating the subject when she is called up to the booth for the profile-sheet interview. This is where the staff gathers information about the contestants to list on the cut sheet they give the judges. She steps up to the red dot painted on the ground and turns to face the two men sitting behind a fold-out table a few feet away.

"Name please."

_Make it interesting, Jamie._ "Jamie Brown."

"Where are you from?"

"Bend, Oregon."

"Born there?"

"Uh, no born in Seattle." _At least that's what her false birth certificate says._

"So you grew up in Bend?"

"Yes." _Crap, she was being boring again. Juice it up, Jamie. Juice it up._

"What do you do? Are you in school or what's your job?"

"I'm in a band."

"Really?" Both men perk up and look a little more interested.

"Full time?"and "What kind of music?" they ask at the same time.

Jamie nods. "Yes, full time. We play bars mostly, some festivals, the occasional music room. As for type of music, we do a little of everything. Traditional folk and classic rock and some current stuff. I'd say fifty percent original, fifty percent covers."

"You the singer?"

"No..." She shakes her head then glances at Dash and morphs the shake into a shrug. "Well, not the main singer but I do a couple of duets and a lot of backing vocals and harmonies."

They are both nodding and one is typing into a laptop.

"Instruments?"

"Violin, piano, guitar, mandolin, uhhh... bass violin, cello, banjo..."

"Impressive list."

"I love music." She tries to remember Dash's advice. "I mean, I'm passionate about music and can't imagine my life without it." _Jesus, that sounded so rehearsed._

"Tell us about your family."

"My family?" she stammers, cursing herself for not having prepared for this question.

"Yeah, your family. You close to your parents?"

"Um, they're both dead."

"How long ago?"

"My dad when I was little and my mom about a year ago."

She swears they almost seem to perk up at the little glimpse of tragedy she just gave them.

"What would they say about you trying out for American Idol?"

"I'm not sure." _Fuck, she's terrible at this._

"Did they support your dream of being a singer?"

She nods. "Yes. Definitely." That's as close to the truth as she can answer. "They would definitely want me to win this."

"Okay, so how about siblings?"

"I'm an only child."

"No brothers or sisters?"

She resists the urge to sarcastically remind him that is the very definition of an only child and just shakes her head.

"Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? What family do you have around"

"None."

"Boyfriend?" One man asks while the other adds a "Girlfriend?" with an almost hopeful expression. Jamie can tell they are digging for something interesting, something dramatic they can exploit and sensationalize, and she scrambles to think of some morsel to give them.

"Uh, I have a boyfriend. He's in the band."

One man points to Dash. "That him?"

"No, that's his brother."

"You got kids?"

"No." She bites her bottom lip. "Not yet," she adds hastily, stealing a sideways glance at Dash. She hasn't had that conversation with Mason yet so it feels odd talking about it with his brother present.

"Do you live with your boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"In Oregon?"

"No, in a camper." She realizes as the words are coming out of her mouth that this line of questioning is her best opportunity because she can't exactly divulge the shocking story about her mobster father threatening to kill her boyfriend. She knows she had better make the most of this chance because she can practically feel the frustration rolling off Dash from where he stands ten feet away. _How does she make this interesting?_

"We live on the road," she offers. "The band travels year round and we live in a camper van." _That was at least a little bit interesting, right?_

"So you don't have a permanent address?"

"Just a post officebox in New Orleans."

"Sounds dedicated. You or your band ever been signed to a label?"

"Not yet but we just recorded our third CD, the first that I'm part of."

"Tell us about your musical history. You know, when did you start? What training do you have? Do your parents sing? That kind of thing."

"My mom was a professional singer," she admits.

"She ever get signed?"

"No, she was a lounge singer... in some upscale club, I think. In the eighties when she was young, before I was born. She was really good." _No need to mention that was where her father first saw her and decided she was to be his trophy… his property._

"I started violin and classical piano when I was five and took up the guitar and when I was fourteen."

The man on the left sits back in his chair, looking tired and maybe a little bored. "Thanks, honey. We have all we need. Head inside and wait until they call your batch of numbers."

"Oh. Okay then, thank you." She nods and moves aside, giving Dash an apologetic look as she approaches him.

"I know, I know," she groans. "I was awful."

Dash shrugs and falls in beside her as they head to the stadium doors. "You weren't that bad. I've been thinking and I realized you don't need a wild, exciting story. You're gonna get through with your singing, Jamie. Not under the freak quotient."

They are directed to a huge conference room filled with fold-out chairs and Dash curses quietly when they step inside. "Look at this crowd," he growls. "We're gonna be here 'til midnight."

**~0~0~0~**

The room is loud and hot and after sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair for four hours, Jamie's irritable.

Dash is worse.

The girl in her early twenties sitting next to them with her mother has been practicing for two hours straight, five lines of the same Beyoncé song over and over and over. And over. Dash is leaning forward, pinching the bridge of his nose and he suddenly sits up straight and turns to them.

"You're using too many runs," he blurts. "You're all over the place. The melody isn't even recognizable."

The girl deflates and slumps in her chair but the mother bristles.

"She has less than thirty seconds to show the judges everything she can do," the woman says defensively.

"But she's giving them all frills and no substance. Runs can add to a melody but can't replace it."

Her frown remains and Dash raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry, I'm just tryin' to help."

"Thanks, but we're fine."

He turns back to Jamie before rolling his eyes. She allows herself a smile despite the building nausea in her stomach. The girl really should listen to Dash – he's incredibly talented and his advice is spot on. The girl isn't a bad singer; she just doesn't have the experience to know what overkill sounds like.

"Something just occurred to me," Dash says, his face screwed up in thought. "I should listen to my own advice. We picked the Adele song because it shows your range and that you can belt it out and do the soft part 'cause you might only have twenty seconds. But the truth is, you don't have to show them _everything_ you can do. In fact, you _can't_ show them everything you can do. Let's do the opposite and strip it down."

"Strip down Adele?" It took them hours to decide on a song and talking about changing it when they were less than fifty people from her turn makes her even more nervous than she already is.

He shakes his head. "Nah, not Adele. Let's pick something we haven't heard fifty other people practicing… or butchering. The point I'm making is that we don't have to show that you can do everything in this round. We just have to show that you can do one thing extremely well. So we pick something that showcases your voice. Your technical skill. Your control. Your soft tone - that's magical."

She gives him a doubtful look and he waves a hand in the air as if to shoo her doubts away.

"Just trust me. The Adele song is just burying your talents in a good song. Let's go so simple the judges won't be able to miss how beautiful your voice is."

She raises an eyebrow. "Beautiful?" It feels weird to hear Dash saying something so demonstrative and tender-sounding to her. That was Mason's thing.

He nods emphatically. "Duh. Your voice is incredible. You think I'd ask somebody with an average voice to join the band?"

"You didn't ask me, Mason did," she points out.

"It was my idea."

"What?" She's not sure she believes him.

He lets out a soft laugh. "Remember that first night when Mason brought you over to jam with us in Trudy?"

"That was the second night," she corrects. "He spent the first night at my place."

"Whatever. You came over with your Stentor and played and sang with us for hours, remember? You were awesome and you fit right in. I can recognize real talent when I hear it. The next day I asked Mason if he would be okay with offering you a spot in the Rogues or if that would be awkward for him, you know, considering you were just a hook-up." He gave her a quick, teasing grin.

"What did he say?" she asks quietly, intrigued at the new insight.

Dash snorts. "Jumped on it. Shocked the Hell outta me how fast he agreed. I mean, Mason had his share of hook-ups – let's just say he was worse than me and Terrence put together - and not one lasted longer than however many days we were in town. 'Til you."

The revelation and talk of Mason gives rise to a sudden flood of sadness then fear and Jamie falls forward, her elbows on her knees and her face buried in her hands. "Oh God, Dash. What if I don't make it through?" she whispers, her stomach in knots.

"You will."

"But what if…"

"The judges would have to be morons not to put you through," he assures her, sounding confident and sure of himself just like Dash always does. "Jamie, I don't think you realize just how good you are. You can't just sing; you have natural talent in spades. Instinct. The type of shit you can't teach or learn. Every sound that comes out of your mouth is utter perfection. Especially your soft tone – it's so damn pure it's golden. And your pitch, intonation, timing…. all of it. You're fucking good. You can do this."

She lifts her head to look at him, torn between breaking down in tears denying everything he just said or hugging him and letting herself believe him. She does neither and simply nods. Then a glance past his broad shoulders reveals another camera crew making their way down their aisle for the fifth time today, interviewing every contestant on the way. She groans and pleads silently for the moisture in her eyelids to dry up before they reach her.

**~0~0~0~**

When Jamie's batch of numbers is called, she and Dash are moved into a large hallway with about twenty other contestants and shuffled into numerical order. Only a few people are ahead of her now and her meager lunch threatens to resurface. Ryan Seacrest is at the far end of the hall, grinning and chatting cheerfully with the contestants about to go in and with the family of the man inside the audition room.

Jamie drops into a chair and leans forward. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Don't get any on J-Lo's shoes," Dash retorts.

"You're not helping."

She spends the next half hour watching with bated breath as each contestant exits the audition room shaking their heads, crying, and hugging their equally-tearful families. Of the twenty in front of her, only one comes out screaming with joy and waving a yellow piece of paper.

Only one.

"Crap, the judges must be in a bad mood," she whispers as they are beckoned to stand with Ryan.

Dash doesn't answer, his face grim. The imminence of the audition that could either save or kill his brother is clearly weighing on him and his usual confident, composed facade is wavering.

Ryan greets them with his perfect, affable grin, reaching over to shake both their hands in turn. "Whoa, tall guy," he chirps at Dash before sidling closer to Jamie and her non-imposing height of five-foot-five.

Ryan makes small talk. "What's your name?"

"Jamie Brown."

"Are you excited? You look more terrified than excited."

She forces a smile. "I'm both."

"I'll bet. This your boyfriend come to cheer you on?" He doesn't wait for an answer before turning to Dash. "What do you think? Is she going to get a gold ticket?"

"The judges would be crazy not to put her through."

Ryan laughs. "Don't say that. Those three just might be crazy. Well, Simon at least. So Jamie can sing, huh?"

"She's phenomenal."

Ryan turns back to Jamie. "He's confident. Are you as confident as he is?"

Jamie holds out her hand in reply, which is visibly shaking. Ryan rubs a hand on her shoulder blade in a gesture of comfort, all the while hamming it up for the camera.

"Don't be scared. They don't bite. Most of the time, anyway. So which judge are you most excited to meet?"

The conversation continues for the longest five minutes of Jamie's life, her answers an automated blur of yes's and no's. When Ryan is given the signal from a man in a black t-shirt with a badge and an earpiece, the show's host ushers Jamie towards a plain, white door behind them.

"Good luck," she hears Ryan say but her eyes are glued to Dash, who just nods tersely and makes an effort to give her a smile of encouragement.

Then she finds herself in a tiny chamber the size of a closet with mirrors on both sides and a door in front of her with a two big lights above it. The red one is on and Jamie swallows to quell the panic threatening to erupt. She dares not look in the mirrors and keeps her eyes straight ahead, battling to control her breath and repeating a silent mantra of comfort.

She can do this. She can do this. She _has_ to do this. It's just singing. She can sing. She loves to sing. She sings four nights a week in front of tons of people. She can handle three people. She can impress three people.

With a terrifying click that makes her heart jump, the light switches from red to green. She takes one last breath, thinks of Mason, and steps forward and through the door, barely looking up until she reaches the cross of tape on the floor, or 'the mark' as instructed.

"Hi," Jennifer Lopez greets her cheerily.

Jamie smiles nervously and is struck momentarily by how stunning the woman is in person. "Hi," she answers, glancing in turn at Keith Urban and Simon Cowell. On the left, Keith is smiling also, elbows on the table, but Simon is sitting back, straight-faced and serious. Jamie can't help but notice Keith is exceptionally good-looking also but Simon is… intimidating.

"What's your name, sweetie?" Jennifer continues.

"Jamie Brown. I'm twenty-four and I'm from Bend, Oregon." She's pleased she at least remembered to provide the information the staff had instructed her to give upon entry.

"Are you nervous, Jamie?" Keith asks in a friendly voice.

She nods and lets out a puff of air, forcing herself to relax. "Yeah, sorry. I am a bit."

"Have you ever performed for people before?" Jennifer asks.

"Yeah, I'm actually in a band so I perform on stage three or four night a week." She manages a little laugh. "The stakes are just higher here is all… but I'm fine. I'm fine."

Jennifer and Keith give her encouraging smiles. "Well, you're very pretty," Jennifer says. "I love your boots."

"Oh, thank you." _And thank you Mister GQ Dash Lannon._

"What do you do in your band?" Keith asks. "Are you the singer?"

"No, I play violin mostly, or keyboards or guitar or mandolin. I'm backing vocals."

"Mmmm, I can tell," Jennifer says, waving her pen in the air a little as she talks. "I don't mean that as a bad thing, I don't, just that you don't seem like you're used to being center-stage, you know?" She looks to Keith. "You know what I'm talking about?"

Keith nods and looks like he's about to say something but Simon interjects. "So Jamie, what are you going to sing for us today?"

" _Awake my Soul_ by Mumford and Sons." She's nervous about the selection because she is doing the Rogue's much slower version, and with no accompaniment. This risky move of Dash's leaves no room for flaws or mistakes.

She simply gets three nods and an "Okay, go ahead," from Simon so she starts.

" _How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes_  
_I struggle to find only truth in your lies_  
 _And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know_  
 _My weakness I feel I must finally show_

_Huuuhuh…. Huuuhuh_  
_Huuuhuh…. Huuuhuh_

_Awaaaaaake, my soul_

_Awaaaaaake, my soul."_

She had skipped the second verse and gone more quickly to the chorus just in case the judges got bored and cut her off before she got there but she looks up now to see three expressions of intense concentration. Jennifer's face is all screwed up as if she's sucking on sour candy but Keith and Simon are both leaning forward, eyes wide. Nobody makes a move to stop her. Encouraged, she keeps going, jumping back to the second verse.

" _Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all_  
_But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall_  
 _Lend me your eyes I can change what you see_  
 _But your soul you must keep totally free_

_Huuuhuh…. Huuuhuh  
Huuuhuh…. Huuuhuh_

_Awaaaaaake, my soul_

_Awaaaaaake, my soul."_

Simon lifts a hand and Jamie stops instantly, clamping her hands in front of her and wringing them together as she braces herself for the verdict. _Does Mason live or die?_

"Wow, I could've let you keep going all day," Keith jumps in.

"Me too!" agrees Jennifer. "That was beautiful, sweetie."

A gush of air leaves Jamie and she fights back tears. She hasn't cried through this whole ordeal; she isn't about to start in front of the three strangers, especially before they give her their decision.

"Yeah, it was slowed down but so full of feeling that doing it any faster would have taken away from it," says Keith, rolling his hands in front of his chest to signify the 'feeling' he was referring too. "It was really really good."

"Jamie, I have to agree with Keith," Simon says. "Slowing a song down that much with no accompaniment can do one of two things. The pauses between lines can lose the audience, where their attention starts to stray and the song becomes boring, or it can do just the opposite and draw the audience in with anticipation of the next verse. That's exactly what you managed to do."

Jennifer is nodding. "Yes, yes. In between lines, in the pauses, I was holding my breath, you know, just begging for that next line."

"That's called a pregnant pause," Keith adds.

Jennifer's head whips to her left. "A what? Pregnant? What are you talking about, pregnant?" She and Keith share a laugh and then they turn back to Jamie. "Your voice is beautiful, honey. I wasn't expecting that. I loved it."

"Yeah, you have a lotta talent," Keith tells her. "A lotta potential. You have a lovely tone and I get the feeling you're going places with that voice."

"So what's the vote?" Simon demands, looking to his fellow judges.

Jennifer answers immediately. "I love your voice. And your boots. Yes. It's a yes for me."

"It's yes for me too," Keith says next.

Jamie is holding her breath as all eyes turn to Simon.

"I do think you have to work on your stage presence a little but Jamie, you're going to Hollywood." He holds up a yellow card. "Three yes's."

Jamie rushes forward, gushing something she hopes is 'thank-you' but isn't sure. She manages to restrain herself from snatching the card from Simons fingers but barely. She composes herself enough to shake hands with each of the judges in turn before she races out the exit door, clutching Mason's ticket tightly in her hand.

She throws open the door and her eyes immediately search out familiar ones. Dash is standing next to Ryan talking and his head jerks up at the slam of the door. She rushes up and throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly. The bright yellow paper in her hand makes words unnecessary and she's thankful because suddenly she's sobbing. Full out gut-wrenching sobs making speaking impossible, a river of tears soaking the front of Dash's t-shirt.

She hasn't broken down since this whole thing started. She's been fighting to keep it together, her only focus to get this done but now, with the ticket in her hands and Mason safe for the time being, she just can't hold it in any longer. Dash is hugging her back, squeezing her so tightly she can barely breathe but she doesn't care. Mason is safe. She did it. For now, Mason is safe.

Mason's not going to die today.

She feels a shudder, hears a sniff in her ear, and realizes Dash is crying too. Not like she is but he's definitely weeping. They stay as they are for a long moment, wrapped in each other's relief and oblivious to the world around them.

Finally, Ryan's voice registers and she feels the show's host patting her back gently. She sniffs and loosens her grip on Dash, her knuckle coming up to wipe tear streaks from her cheeks as soon as he pulls away. She lets out a huff of embarrassed laughter as she lifts her head to meet Ryan's gaze.

"Wow, you okay?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned and supportive, as he always does. "That's emotional. Very emotional. I take it those are happy tears."

Jamie nods, managing a weak smile. "Yeah. Yeah. Very happy."

Ryan's blinding white grin returns. "You made it. You're going to Hollywood."

"I made it," she repeats. "I made it."

"So now, you know what you have to do?" Ryan continues, ushering her towards a door on the right. "You have to go in there and tell America why you're the next American Idol."

She nods and opens the door and her elation momentarily falters. _Damn, she forgot about this part._ She steps into the booth with the American Idol logo plastered floor to ceiling on all four walls. There are bright lights beaming down on her and she can make out a camera behind the dark glass of a small window on the far wall. There is large writing above the window that reads:

_"Look into the window and say "I am the next American Idol because..." Remember, America's watching."_

She swallows and says the first thing that comes to mind, which feels brutally honest.

"I am the next American Idol because...because I need this. I need this more than I need to breathe."

**~0~0~0~**

Exhausted, the pair walk back to Trudy in silence. Dash immediately goes into the tiny bathroom and Jamie can hear him vomiting. She feels another rush of guilt at the anguish and turmoil she is causing the Lannan brothers and wonders what happens next. She pulls out the manila envelope Marco gave her and digs around until she finds the slip of paper with the phone number on it.

It rings six times before Marco answers.

"I made it through," she gushes. "I got through."

_"Well done, Isabella. We had little doubt."_

"Can I have him back?"

_"No. Your competitor also made it through to the Hollywood round so you have to show up there and make sure he gets eliminated before you."_

Her heart drops and she averts her eyes from Dash when he emerges from the bathroom.

"But that's two weeks away," she practically whispers. "Let Mason come back until then at least."

Marco's laughter holds no humor. _"Your boyfriend is fine where he is. You'll see him when this is over."_

"Where is he?"

_"As if I would tell you that. That might give you the idea you have choices."_

"Let me speak to him."

"I'm at your father's house, Isabella. I'm not stupid enough to bring him here. Get through Hollywood week and I'll let you speak to him."

The phone call ends suddenly with a small click. Jamie shudders out a disappointed breath and glances up at Dash.

"They've got him stashed somewhere."

"Where?"

"I don't know. My dad's got safe houses and places all over the country that they use to lay low in or hide from the cops... or stash people they don't want found. I don't know where they are and he could be in any one of them. They could have him anywhere."

Dash gives her a long, hard look and she can see the fear and doubt turning into resolve by the slow setting of his jaw. Finally, he marches past her and drops himself into Trudy's driver's seat. The engine starts up with its usual sputter.

"Where are we going?" she asks with trepidation.

"I'm not sitting on my ass for two weeks while Mason's going through God knows what, prisoner to a bunch of mob thugs."

Jamie climbs into the passenger seat. "But we don't know where he is," she reminds him.

"Then we go see someone who does. Time to pay you father a visit, Jamie."

**~0~0~0~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had an idea of a Rouges of Ramparts version of 'Awake My Soul' in my head so I scouted You Tube and found something very close - only better! There is an absolutely beautiful cover version posted by someone named Jake Owen (not the country singer, some other dude). I have no idea who he is but what he does with the song is pure magic. Not that there is any room for improvement on Mumford and Sons (I LOVE their stuff) but this is a slower version that is equally fantastic. Y'all should check it out. 
> 
> Also, I have never been to an American Idol audition. This is all based on the audition episodes that I have seen so it may not be very authentic.


	3. Home Sweet Home

_"Take five, everyone," says Stanton. "I have to set up the next shot."_

_"I'll help, Dad," Landry offers, leaning the neck of his upright bass towards Mason to take. Mason wraps his fingers around it quickly, freeing the youngest band member to aid his father with the camera. The pair starts moving about with their fingers held out in the form of a box in front of them, scouting out the best angles._

_Mason lays the bass down gently in the grass along with his guitar and smiles at Jamie. "Who knew making a video would be this much work, huh?"_

_"You call this work?" she scoffs, jerking her head towards the house to point out a woman walking towards them on the grass, carrying a tray of drinks._

_Mason turns his head. "Oh my God," he mutters with a sarcastic lilt. "Is that lemonade? And is she wearing heels?" As if in answer to his question, the woman stumbles slightly but saves the tray and keeps right on going._

_Jamie slaps his chest playfully. "Don't make fun of our hosts. Landry's parents are sweet."_

_"I know, I know," he concedes. "It's just..." he gestures around him at the wide expanse of green grass and cluster of cherry blossom trees they had been filming under all morning. "Who actually lives like this? D'ya know they don't even call this a yard, they call it 'the grounds'. Where I grew up, this would be called a State Park."_

_She chuckles. "At least they're being supportive of their son."_

_"I'll give them that."_

_The woman reaches them and holds out the tray of drinks. "I thought you could use some refreshments," she smiles. "Iced tea?"_

_Mason takes a glass. "Thanks, Mrs. Beecham."_

_She lets out an embarrassed laugh. "Eve, please. Just call me Eve."_

_"Thanks, Eve." Mason gives her his most charming smile and Jamie has to refrain from rolling her eyes._

_Eve hands Jamie a drink also then heads over towards Dash and Terrence, who are once again sifting through the photographs strewn across the fold-out table, trying to decide on one should grace their latest album cover. Although he is some sort of banker, Landry's father has a passion for photography and when he offered to shoot the first formal video for the Rogues of Rampart, Dash and Mason had jumped at it._

_"You know he's only got 'til he's twenty-one," Mason tells Jamie, glancing over to where Landry and Stanton are fiddling with the camera stand. "His folks agreed to give him three years to make a decent go at the music thing. If he doesn't get anywhere by the time he's twenty-one, he has to enroll in college. Become a lawyer or some crap."_

_"Well at least they're giving him a decent shot at it," she muses. "This video will be good for the band."_

_She knows doing this video is a foolish move on her part but she had run out of excuses. Besides, it's only going to be put up on YouTube. How much exposure will it really get? What are the chances mobsters from New York actually stumble across it?_

_Mason slides his free arm around her waist from behind and pulls her back against him. "This coming from the girl who tried to convince us to do it without her," he scoffs, planting a soft kiss on her neck._

_"I've only been in the band five months. I just thought..."_

_"You recorded this album with us. You're as much a part of the band now as Terrence and Landry."_

_"I know, I know."_

_They're interrupted by Dash. "Hey guys. We've made our pick for the cover." He hands them a glossy 8"x10" photograph. "What do you think?"_

_With his arms still around her, Mason takes the photo and holds it in front of them._

_"Damn, that's good," is all he says, sounding genuinely pleased. "What do you think, babe?"_

_It certainly is a striking shot. The five of them with their acoustic instruments, standing under the largest of the cherry blossom trees, a bed of pink petals at their feet and serious expressions on their faces. In her bright red dress, Jamie makes a stark contrast against the four sharp-looking, vested men surrounding her in a sea of greys and black._

_Oh, crap. In the video she's managing to toss her hair about enough to avoid any lengthy, full-face shots but this..._

_"That's four votes for this pic," Dash says, looking at her expectantly. "What do you say, Jamie?"_

_What the Hell. She swallows past a lump in her throat. "I say Stanton missed his calling."_

**~0~0~0~**

"Hey, hey," Dash says, tapping her shoulder repeatedly. "Jamie, wake up. We're getting off the freeway. Which way do I go?"

The situation hits her again like a physical blow as she comes around. Mason being taken. Dash's insistence they visit her father. American Idol.

She had driven through Virginia and Maryland to allow Dash some time to sleep but he had taken the wheel again at the Pennsylvania border. She must have nodded off in the passenger seat.

"Which way do I go?" he repeats.

"Uh..." she replies groggily, wiping sleep out of her eyes. "Head for Holland Tunnel. It's in Greenwich Village, um...West 9th street. I don't remember the number but I'll recognize it when I see it. It's just a couple of blocks from the Washington Square Arch."

Dash spares her a questioning look. "You're sure he's in the same house? I mean, it's been ten years. Maybe he moved."

She shakes her head. "Running from an evil crimelord, lesson 101 - keep tabs on the evil crimelord."

They're quiet for the next few minutes and Jamie's stomach tightens as they sweep into the old familiarity of the dark tunnel, Trudy's throaty rumble echoing off the tiled walls. She lets out a long, loud breath in an effort to calm herself.

"You up for this?" Dash asks, his tone more challenging than concerned.

"Nope," she snorts out a nervous laugh. "Not even a little bit. One more time for the record, Dash, this is a bad idea."

"I'm not sitting around for two weeks not knowing what my brother's going through. You want me _not_ to call the cops, then he gives us Mason back."

"He's not going to."

"We just have to reason with him," he argues. "Explain that you'll win his bet for him regardless and he doesn't have to hang on to Mason."

"Reason isn't exactly in his vocabu..." She stops suddenly, whipping her head around. "Wait, _we_? What do you mean, _we_? No, Dash. You can't come in."

It's his turn to snort. "Like Hell I can't."

"No, you can't." The nerves twisting knots in her stomach upgrade to a full-on macrame frenzy. "Stay outside; wait for me in Trudy."

"Not gonna happen. This asshole has my brother."

"This asshole has guns, Dash! And all the assholes around him have guns. And they're not afraid to use them." She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, trying to force away a disturbing image from her past.

_Pressing her bloody hands to a bullet wound..._

"Exactly why you're not going in there alone..." Dash is still arguing.

"No! No, you stay out here or I don't go in." She takes a breath, reining in her spiking fear. "Look, he's not going to hurt me. He needs me. But I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about the bet, remember? You have to wait outside or he'll know I disobeyed. He can't know I disobeyed. He _can't_."

Dash blinks several times as they exit the tunnel and the afternoon sunlight floods in through Trudy's front window. "Fine," he says quietly after a long pause. "Just get Mason back."

**~0~0~0~**

The sound of the austere door chime triggers memories and sends a chill down her spine so sharp she jerks her finger off the button.

"Joey, that you?" A voice cackles through the speaker.

Jamie clears her throat. "Um, no. I'm here to see Tommy Tavarone. It's Ja... tell him it's Isabella."

"Isabella who?" the voice demands. She hears another man's voice in the background, faint and unclear, before the first speaks back into the intercom. "Stay there; someone'll be right down."

A minute later, the door opens and for the second time in two days, she finds herself face to face with Marco Burani.

"What are you doing here, Isabella?" he asks sternly. Two men slide past him and Jamie takes a sideways step to let them pass. They move out onto the street. Marco hooks a finger around her elbow to usher her inside. He closes the door firmly behind her and heads straight for the stairs.

"Come on. Your father's waiting for you upstairs."

Jamie's feet suddenly feel like lead weights and she doesn't move. Temporarily frozen, she looks around. The house is exactly as she remembers. It's a four-storey, almost nine-thousand square foot townhouse built in early 1900's Anglo-Italianate style. High ceilings, ornate trim, and a lot of white - both walls and furniture - give it a clean and modern appearance. It would likely be considered beautiful by most but to Jamie, it barely looks lived in, certainly can't be described as 'homey', and feels as much a prison now as it did ten years ago.

"Isabella!"

Marco's sharp voice snaps her out of her trance and she rushes to follow him up the stairs, her sense of dread growing heavier with every step. At the top, she trails the older man through the double French doors into the large living room. Her eyes scan the three men present until they fall on the one in the dark suit standing by the fireplace.

_Her father, Tommy Tavarone._

Her breath catches. He is a tall, lean man with slicked back, greying hair and looks exactly as she remembers him - only somehow even more frightening. In recent years, she had begun to think this man would be less daunting in person now that she was an adult but if anything, he's even more intimidating. He is smiling but his eyes reflect no warmth. They are even more sinister than her memory . More cruel.

"Isabella," he greets her, opening his arms in front of him. "Come give your papa a hug."

She takes a step back and shakes her head, more from crippling fear than any notion of defiance.

His expression immediately darkens. "I said come give your papa a hug."

She remembers Mason, her reason for being here, and forces her legs to move, obediently making her way over to him. He pulls her into a stiff hug that she doesn't return. There isn't a scrap of affection in it. It doesn't last long and he practically shoves her away when he releases her. She takes a quick step backwards, needing more space between them to think straight.

"Ten years," he says simply. "You're a grown woman now. Beautiful, just like your mother. I was sorry to hear she's gone. A car accident? Tragic."

Fear and nerves prevent her snort from escaping, prevent her retort of _'you mean tragic that you didn't get to kill her yourself'._ Instead she just nods. "I miss her," she mumbles honestly.

"Believe it or not, bela, so do I." His smile returns. "But I hear you made it past the Nashville audition. Great news. You always had a beautiful voice."

"Uh, yeah... um, that's why I came here," she manages. "It's about Mason."

Her father looks confused for a second. "Who?"

"The boyfriend," Marco supplies from where he now sits on the white leather couch, arm resting leisurely across the back cushion.

"Ahh, yes," Tavarone nods. "My leverage."

"I need you to let him go." She's actually impressed with how confident she just sounded.

Her father throws his head back in laughter, looking genuinely amused but his face twists back to serious the instant his cold stare returns to her. "No."

"Please, you don't need to keep him. I'm going to win this thing for you regardless, I swear."

"The answer's no. You know why?" He narrows his eyes at her. "Ten years is why." He turns to an older, heavyset man standing quietly to his left. "Sal, how many days in ten years?"

The man shrugs nervously, blowing out a breath as he struggles to come up with an answer. Jamie studies him and it takes her a few seconds, but she finally recognizes the kind face. It's Sal. Wow, the ten years have _not_ been kind to him. He's scruffier and more haggard and much, much older looking than she remembers.

"Three thousand six-hundred fifty?" he finally supplies, sounding unsure.

Tavarone's gaze returns to Jamie. "That's three thousand six-hundred and fifty reasons not to trust you."

"But you know where I am now." She tries to sound as reassuring as she can. "I'm not hiding from you anymore. I can beat this other kid..."

"No."

"But..."

"NO!"

The entire room falls silent and Jamie flinches. It's all she can do not to whimper out loud. She remembers his temper. She remembers what he is capable of when he gets angry. She remembers how quickly he morphs from calm to crazy.

And she knows she's not getting Mason back unless she wins this bet.

"Can I... can I at least see him?" she stammers, her voice but a whisper now.

"That's not possible..." Her father's reply is halted by noisy footsteps on the stairs and all heads turn to the French doors. She swallows amidst the tension, only half caring who else is coming in.

That all changes when Dash's tall frame appears in the doorway. His mouth is set in a hard line and he's flanked by the two men that had stepped outside as Jamie entered the house.

"Dash!" she cries in alarm. She automatically steps towards him but freezes when she sees a gun in the hand of the man at his side. A gun pointed right at her friend.

She spins to her father, her fear spiking once more. "Dad!"

"Found this mook sittin' in an RV out on the street," one of the men escorting Dash in says. "Pretty sure it's the brother."

"It is," Marcus confirms simply, not getting up.

"Where's Mason?" Dash demands and Jamie can't help but think he is being incredibly brave yet ridiculously stupid at the same time.

Her father barely glances at the newcomers before spinning to pin Jamie under his hard gaze. "Did you inform my daughter of the need for secrecy?" he asks Marco, though his eyes never leave Jamie.

On the couch, Marco hesitates and Jamie prays he is thinking of a way to keep his boss calm. Marco is ruthless and cold, but definitely more reasonable – or at least he used to be. Hopefully that hasn't changed. Dash's fate could rest entirely on what he says next.

"I did," Marco answers slowly. "But Tommy, if he were going to call this in, the feds would be at our door already. Our leverage works on him too. It's his brother. Famiglia."

Jamie finds herself nodding in fervent agreement. "He won't tell anybody. He won't. I needed him… I need him to do this." Her voice is breathy and desperate. She's trying to think up an argument to save a man's life while her head is spinning so fast her knees are wobbly. Not an easy task. "He's a musical genius, Dad. I won't get anywhere in American Idol without him. I need his help. That's the only reason I told him. I had to. Please." She's begging now.

"My instructions were very specific," Tavarone deadpans. "And you sing beautifully, bela. You don't need help with that."

"It's more than just singing!" she scrambles. "It's knowing what to sing and it's song arrangement and working the crowd and... and..."

"She makes a point, amico mio," Marco weighs in. "This thing relies on public voting. We already looked into rigging it and got nowhere. If she's gonna beat the Mick kid, she'll need some help."

If Dash didn't realize the seriousness of his situation when he was first led in, he certainly does now. His defiant expression is rapidly being replaced by one of apprehension and fear.

Tavarone's shoulders drop slightly. "Fine, but it's on you, Marco. He rats and it's on you."

Marco nods in calm acceptance of the terms and the tension in the room lessens instantly.

"Isabella," her father addresses her again in a casual tone, as if he hadn't just been contemplating killing someone. "Play something for us." He gestures towards the Steinway & Sons grand piano just off the seating area. "Remember that? I bought it for your birthday. Your ninth, I believe."

He almost seems to be reminiscing fondly of the memory. All Jamie remembers of that day is sitting in the corner of the room during a party that had no other kids, watching her father talk business to a hundred grown-ups wearing tuxedos and pinching her cheeks every time they passed by. That was the first day of many that he made her play and sing for his friends.

She swallows, hesitant. She doesn't play classical much anymore. Over the past year, the only time she's even had access to a full size piano was in a Cleveland music store with Mason. She played a Chopin piece for him and was flattered and thrilled at his wide-eyed, gushing reaction.

"I can't... I don't remember..."

"PLAY SOMETHING!"

A terrified yelp escapes her in response and she scurries towards the piano.

"Play something for my associates," Tavarone instructs. "Just like old times." His voice is calm again as his gaze sweeps around the room. "You're in for a treat, gentlemen. My Isabella inherited her mother's musical talents."

She settles herself nervously on the bench, dusting her fingers lightly over the keys to feel the instrument out before trying a 'G' chord followed by a few random notes. The piano is in perfect tune - not surprisingly. She takes a breath and starts one of her favorite pieces, Chopin's Nocturne Opera Postuma. She flubs a few notes in and loses track, pausing before starting again. She makes the same mistake – it has been a while since she played this – on both her second and third tries and hears a cluck of annoyance from her father behind her. So on the fourth erred try, she just plays right through it, fighting to concentrate on the music despite the stress of her surroundings. It's a beautiful piece that she used to enjoy playing and she tries to focus on that. She makes it thirty seconds in without any further mistakes and is just starting to relax when she jolts in fear at the sharp sound of her father's voice behind her.

"Enough with the sad shit!" he barks. "You and your damn Chopin. Give us something with bite, with fire. Give me the Diabelli Variation fugue or some Hammerklavier."

Two of the hardest pieces out there _._ She certainly doesn't miss being this man's puppet for him to show off with.

She glances up at Dash, who is still standing silently between the two armed men. His arms are folded across his chest but he looks nervous. Her guilt spikes.

"Make it good," is her father's stern warning.

She takes a few breaths trying to bring the Beethoven pieces to mind, wishing she had the sheet music in front of her. She decides on Hammerklavier and hesitantly arranges her fingers, letting out a slow exhale before starting. She barely makes it a dozen notes before she stumbles one and it messes up her timing on the next few. She hears an angry huff and pushes through the blunder, her heart thumping in her chest.

Her father reaches the limit of his already-thin patience at her next mistake and slams his hand down on a nearby end table. "Damnit, Isabella! I didn't spend thousands on tutors to listen to you screw up!"

Unfortunately, the rebuke makes things worse. Her tenuous concentration is broken and she completely butchers the next section, so badly she loses her way and has to stop.

"Keep going!"

"I'm trying…" she whimpers, repositioning her trembling hands to start again. She gets it wrong right off the bat and stops again, flustered.

"I said keep going, che cazzo!"

Tavarone gestures to the man with the gun, who nods and lifts the weapon until it's pressed against Dash's temple. The young man's face blanches and he stiffens, freezing in place with his mouth half-open in an expression of pure fear. His eyes lock on Jamie's.

"No! Wait, I can do it, I can do it," Jamie insists, choking back sobs.

"You'd better," is her father's even reply.

 _Oh God, oh God, oh God._ If her heart was racing before, it's pounding right out of her chest now. Her vision is blurred with welling tears. Her trembling hands feel like jelly as she turns and settles them back on the keys. The first few notes miraculously come out perfectly and she seizes it, channelling every fiber of her being towards the piece she is playing. She shuts out the men around her, the room, the house, the fact that Dash is going to be dead if she screws this up one more time. She knows she can't let the panic throw her off; instead she has to harness it, use it to feed the passion of the piece.

It works. There is still a corner of her brain clenched in anticipation ofa gunshot sound behind her but she forces herself to ignore it and her fingers start to fly on their own, the Beethoven piece coming back to her as if she last played it yesterday.

"That's my girl!" She hears Tavarone's praise but doesn't let it distract her. "So talented. Just like your mother…. There we go…. Yes! I knew you had it in you…. A little motivation goes a long way."

It's probably the longest five minutes of her life... No, a flash of memory hits her and she revises that thought. The _second_ -longest five minutes. But Dash isn't Jack and unlike the other time, this five minutes ends peacefully with a round of polite applause as the last notes echo into silence. The clapping is emphatic from her father but more subdued from the other men. She curls her fingers into her palms, lets out a huge breath of relief, and swivels around on the bench. Dash's eyes are screwed shut and she watches him open them nervously, one at a time. Christ, the poor guy must be so scared.

"That was marvellous, bela," Tavarone compliments, glancing around the room. "Wasn't it?"

"Yes, boss."

"Plays like an angel."

"Stupendo. Stupendo."

"Real nice, boss."

With tear streaks shining on her cheeks, she uses the piano to steady herself as she stands up. She gives her father an imploring look, silently asking that the gun be pointed away from Dash and hoping not to provoke another outburst.

It would appear Hyde is gone again and Jekyll is back in control because he smiles pleasantly at her. "Why don't you and your young friend here stay for dinner?"

Her heart does a painful flip in her chest. _Oh God, no._

Thankfully, Marco intercedes. "Tommy, come on now. Enough for today. You're scaring her. We need her at the top of her game. She's got a lot of work to do before Hollywood week. Let her go. These kids have a long drive ahead of them."

Tavarone waves his hands in the air in a very Italian gesture. "Ah, Marco always so serious. Fine. Sal, show them out." He turns back to the other men. "Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen. Where were we?"

Dash flinches when the gun barrel is lowered from his temple and Jamie rushes over, grasping his hand and squeezing it tightly in hers. She keeps a hold of him, dragging him along as they follow Sal out through the French doors. After seeing a gun to Dash's head, she's not letting go of him until he's outside and away from the threat. Until he's safe. Until they're both safe.

He's quiet as they hurry down the stairs and across the large foyer. Sal slides open the three deadbolts one at a time before swinging the door open. As Jamie passes the older man, his hand grasps her shoulder and he leans in close.

"Meet me at a place called Cheap Shots, in Queens," he whispers in her ear. "One A.M. but don't bring the RV. They'll be watching it. And for God's sakes, _make sure you're not followed_."

Caught off guard, Jamie turns to him, ready to question but he pulls back. "Good-bye Isabella," he says at regular volume. "It was nice seeing you again."

He closes the door in her face, leaving her and Dash standing alone on the stoop. She feels a tug and now it's Dash's turn to pull them along. He moves quickly down the stairs to where Trudy is parked at the curb. Jamie's barely settled in the passenger seat before he has the engine started and is jerking the RV out into the line of slow-moving traffic.

They're three blocks away before he speaks. "Holy shit," he breathes. "He's a psycho."

Jamie doesn't reply.

"He's a fucking psycho and he has my brother. That psycho has my brother."

"I'm sorry," is all she can say.

He gives her a long, unreadable look before returning his attention to the road. "It's not your fault," he tells her stiffly. "We just need to figure out our next move."

"You're taking this pretty calmly," she observes.

He snorts. "How am I supposed to be reacting to having a gun to my head?"

"I don't know," she sighs, smiling weakly in an effort to drain some of the intensity in the air. "I would have peed my pants."

"Don't think I was far from it," Dash retorts. "Look." He lifts his right hand a couple of inches off the steering wheel and Jamie can clearly see it's trembling. "That was... that was... fuck, Jamie, this is bad for Mason. I mean, your dad's crazy. Not just an asshole like mine was, but seriously _crazy_."

"I tried to warn you."

He frowns but his voice turns soft. "My dad had a gun but he never... no matter how drunk he got, how mad, he never took it out of the drawer. I've never had a gun pointed at me before. In fact, only time I've ever even seen a gun pointed at anyone was when Mase came to get me outta there."

"Mason threatened someone with a gun?" she asks, surprised. She can't imagine Mason with a gun.

Dash nods but doesn't elaborate, instead changing the subject.

"Who was the guy who showed us out?"

"Oh, that was Sal. He's the guy who helped me and my mom escape."

He raises an eyebrow. "Escape? You mean you weren't in the witness protection program? You know, like with the cops..."

"No way. That never would have been safe. My dad has feds on his payroll too. And he would have killed me weeks ago when they first found me if my mom and me had ratted on him. That's a flat-out rule no matter whose family you are. No, we just ran away. With Sal's help. If Dad ever found that out, he'd kill Sal in a heartbeat."

"So what did he say to you at the door?"

**~0~0~0~**

Cheap Shots is a dive bar catering to a mixed crowd with a sizeable number of college students. Not the type of place one would expect a middle-aged mafia captain like Sal to hang out. Which is, Jamie thinks, probably exactly why he chose it.

She and Dash arrive early, having left Trudy in a parking garage a few miles away and taken the bus. They find a seat where they can see the door and most of the room and order a couple of drinks. Sal finally shows up around two o'clock, appearing out of nowhere and sliding into the chair next to Jamie.

"Sal!" she exclaims with a start. "I was starting to think you weren't going to show."

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking around nervously. "I almost didn't but I figured I needed to talk to you."

"Do you know where Mason is?" Dash demands.

Sal gives him a long, wary look then shakes his head. "Sorry, kid. Boss has your brother stashed somewhere on the other side of the country. Don't nobody but Marco and the men watchin' him know where."

"Damnit." Dash's frustration is evident.

"Why'd you want to meet then?" Jamie asks. "Can you help us?"

He shakes his head again. "No, sweetheart. I just wanted to make sure you don't come round here again. That was a stupid move."

"I know, I know."

"Do you have any idea how hard it was for Marco to convince your old man to let you be when we first found you a couple of months back? Tommy was wild. He was ready to snatch you up the moment the call came in."

Jamie shudders.

"How is that guy the boss?" Dash asks. "He's obviously a couple of cans short of a six-pack, how the Hell did he get to be the frigging mafia king - or Don - or whatever you call him?"

Sal actually chuckles. "Tommy knows how to play the game," he explains. "You don't stay on top for goin' on twenty years without smarts. He might have a short fuse but on a business front, he's a tactical genius. The moves he's pulled…" The waitress comes by but he waves his hand at her quickly, declining any drinks. "And he has Marco," he continues as soon as she's out of earshot. "Marco's always been Tommy's anchor, the only one who can rein him in when his crazy's about to explode unnecessarily."

Jamie nods, remembering. "The calm to Dad's storm. That's what Mom always said." Marco Burani was the only one her father trusted implicitly and the only one who had ever held any sway over the boss's actions. It would appear that was still true.

Sal smiles at her fondly. "Mother of Christ, you look like her, bela. Now that you're all grown up. Except the hair. You used to have the dark hair like your mother."

"I had to dye it after we left," she admits, lifting a hand to her blonde locks. "Mom thought it would help us keep from being recognized."

"Annabelle was a fine lady. Very beautiful. Voice of an angel, too. I was sorry to hear of her passing. She didn't deserve what she got from Tommy."

"Is that why you helped them get away?" Dash asks, taking a sip of his beer and looking genuinely interested.

Sal nods. "But I'd appreciate if you never mentioned that again, son. Not even in your sleep."

"Never," Jamie assures him, putting a hand on his forearm. She doesn't have many fond memories of her childhood, but of the few she does have, a good portion are with 'Uncle Sal'.

Sal leans in and kisses her on each cheek before standing up.

"Wait, you're leaving?" Dash balks.

"Yeah. I prob'ly never should've come in the first place. I just wanted to make sure you were alright and that you shouldn't come back here again. Steer clear of your father, Isabella."

"I get it," she nods.

"And I want to make sure you understand that police ain't the way to go." He narrows his eyes at Dash.

They both nod in solemn response.

"I get that now," Dash admits. "I definitely get that now."

Sal slides a napkin over to Jamie and pulls a pen from his jacket pocket. "Write down your phone number. Just in case. But understand I can't do much here. You gotta win that contest. Or at least get further than the Mick kid."

"Who is the other kid?" Dash asks while Jamie complies.

Sal shakes his head. "Best if I don't say. The kid ain't supposed to find out about this whole bet thing."

"No, but wait, it would be easier to beat him if…"

"Son, you can't tell me you won't talk to him if I tell you. Or at the very least, punch him in the face. If we interfere with the kid in any way, Isabella forfeits and he wins." He turns back to Jamie. "Ciao bela. It was good to see you again. Take care, you hear?"

She watches as he walks away but then stands up quickly, almost toppling her chair over in her haste. "Wait! Sal?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." She swallows. "For ten years ago, I mean. And for now. Thank you."

He nods stiffly and leaves.

**~0~0~0~**

The drive out of New York State is quiet save for the rumble and clangs from Trudy's aging engine. As tired as they both are, they agree it's best to get out of the state as quickly as possible. They will pull over for some sleep somewhere in Pennsylvania. Dash is driving, his face set in a dark and pensive expression as he stares ahead out into the night.

Jamie glances over at him for the hundredth time, wondering what he is thinking but feels too scared and guilty to ask. She gets her answer when he finally breaks the silence with a fearful-sounding statement.

"Christ, I thought _my_ dad was bad."

She's heard a little about Ken Lannan and he sounds like a real brute but she doubts he is anywhere near the monster hers is. "Yours ever kill anyone?" she asks without thinking.

Dash shakes his head. "He was a coward. Used to knock us and our mom around."

She nods. Mason had told her that much but today is the first time she has ever heard Dash even mention his father. Surprisingly, he keeps talking.

"I don't know how much Mase told you but our dad was an asshole," he says. "He'd hit my mom and he started in on Mase when he was only ten or eleven. Mase always looked out for me, took the brunt of it, but when he got older and started fighting back... things got worse. He got kicked out altogether when he was sixteen."

This is far more than she's ever heard before so she remains quiet, saddened but fascinated by the insight.

"Mase used to stop by my school after class to see me and one day I had a black eye. I tried to make up excuses but he knew who'd given it to me. He was seventeen by then and had gotten a job and a tiny room in a shit apartment so he showed up that night and told me to pack my bags. Dad came home and caught us leaving and things got real ugly. I thought he was gonna kill Mase. I mean, he just kept hitting him. He might have, I dunno, but somehow Mase got to the gun and pointed it at him." He pauses, looking lost in thought. "That was the night we left for good. I was fourteen."

"What about your mom?"

"Too drugged out to care."

"That was in Baltimore?"

"Yup. We didn't move to New Orleans until after I finished high school." He gives a little chuckle. "Mase was stubborn as fuck about me finishing high school."

"He's always going on about how smart you are."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"He is too, he just..." Dash sighs. "He didn't get much of a chance. He made it to grade ten." He shrugs. "Not that it matters anyway 'cause music is all either of us ever wanted to do. East Baltimore High wasn't exactly Juilliard."

"I was home schooled until I was fourteen," she offers since they were in the spirit of sharing.

He gives her a sly grin. "Really? I should've guessed. I always thought you went to some fancy private school or something. Your grammar isn't exactly very 'street'."

"What does that mean?" They're in Pennsylvania now and she's starting to breathe a little easier with some distance and a State line between them and her father.

"Oh, come on; the way you speak. You say _'I have to'_ instead of _'I got to'_. You've never once said _'I seen'_ or _'ain't'_ or _'I don't got no'_. You correct the spelling mistakes in Mason's lyrics for crying out loud! And your table manners are downright scary. You eat fried chicken with a knife and fork. Seriously, who does that? Besides you and Landry anyway, and we've all seen how he grew up."

She allows herself a smile at his observations. Guess she isn't as good at blending in as she thought. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

"Mase always suspected you came from an educated family like Landry's."

"He did? He never said anything."

"You never exactly offered details."

"Now you know why. With my dad's line of work, he thought it would be safer for me to have tutors rather than go to school. And he's big on proper manners. Thinks it reflects badly on him if I don't conduct myself properly. Or if I fail to impress, like screwing up Beethoven."

"Yeah, I can believe that," Dash says quietly. His shoulders stiffen and all traces of levity are sucked from the air at the reference to today's Manhattan visit.

"I didn't know you could play piano so good," he says finally. "All that classical stuff. You didn't even have the sheet music."

"That's why I fucked up."

"It was like he was showing off with you."

"He hired a lot of private music teachers for me. " She tilts her head. "Most of them from Juilliard," she adds sardonically. "I had to learn piano, violin, and cello. Just classical though, and some jazz. I wasn't allowed to play any pop or rock or current stuff. First time I picked up a guitar was at fourteen, after my mom and I ran away to Oregon."

"Your mom was a singer, right?"

"Yeah. A lounge singer. She was so good." Jamie feels a lump in her throat and turns to look away, staring into the blackness out the passenger window. It's been a year since her mom died but with everything going on, she's never felt like she needed her more than she does right now.

"Why would she marry that lunatic?"

Jamie shrugs. "You just didn't say 'no' to Tommy Two-Shot Tavarone. He treated her like his property. He used to make one or both of us sing standards and old jazz songs when he had people over."

"Just like he did today with the piano."

She nods.

"You know, a lot of things about you are starting to make so much more sense now."

"Like what?" She didn't realize there are things that didn't make sense. She had been lying about who she is for so long she actually thought she was pretty good at it.

"Like why you skipped those gigs we had in New York. And the ones in Canada. And this is why you refuse to take lead on a song, isn't it?"

"One of the reasons," she admits.

"Pretty big reason. This is why you hover at the back of the stage. Why you wanted your name left off the new album sleeve. Why you were wasting your talent working at a damn Olive Garden when we first met you. All this time I thought it was just lack of confidence or shyness and I couldn't understand how you couldn't see how good you are. But you were just hiding from your psycho dad."

She knows Dash well enough to see he's working himself up. He's a thinker and the more he thinks and figures out, the more scared he's getting about Mason's fate.

"Damnit, you should've told us, Jamie."

"I didn't want to get you guys involved," she defends weakly.

He snorts. "Too late for that."

"I'm sorry, Dash. I'm sorry. If I had known this would happen, I never would have joined the Rogues. It was stupid. It was so stupid and I knew better. I just... Mason made it so damn appealing... to go with him and to get to play music every day... and I had nothing at the time. Nothing. My mom had just died a few months before, I moved to Seattle, I didn't know anyone, I had no family, no real friends.. and then Mason came along and.… I'm sorry. If I had known, I never would have joined the band."

She's choking up. She doesn't have a real excuse to offer him.

There is a long pause before Dash releases a loud sigh. "I know," he says without looking at her. His eyes remain fixed out the front window on the lines of the dark highway. "I know that, alright? It's not your fault your dad's a psychotic asshole. I'm just worried, 'kay?"

Jamie nods, figuring from the edge in his voice that he wasn't being entirely truthful. Couldn't fault him, he had every right to blame her and be angry at her. Her secret could very well end up getting Mason killed.

He puts the signal light on and veers right into the Blakeslee exit. "We need some shut-eye," he explains. "And in the morning, we'll start watchin' every damn episode of American Idol ever made. We'll figure out how to win this thing and in a couple of weeks, we'll get Mason back and pretend this nightmare never happened."

She squeezed her eyes shut in a wince. _Couple of weeks?_ The Hollywood round was in a couple of weeks but if the kid she was supposed to beat got through, this thing could drag on for months. That is, if she didn't get knocked out of the competition somewhere along the way...

"Jamie? You listening to me? Jamie?"

"Yeah, I could use some sleep too," she answers, her voice a whisper as she is fighting off tears again.

His expression softens further. "So your real name's Isabella, huh?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Where did Jamie Brown come from? You went from 'Isabella Francesca Tavarone' to 'Jamie Brown'. How'd you get your new name? What, did it just come with the fake ID?"

She knows he's trying to keep the waters smooth between them, trying to rein in his urge to scream and yell at her for putting his brother in danger and lighten the air. She gives him a faint smile in appreciation.

"I picked it. Jamie anyway, not Brown. We needed a common last name that didn't stand out."

"Wait, so you could have picked any name and you came up with Jamie?" he teases.

"I was fourteen," she defends. "And it was ten years ago. It was trendy back then."

He snorts and she slaps his shoulder.

"This coming from a guy named Dash? A guy whose birth certificate actually says D-A-S-H." She gives him a cheeky grin. "Or did your mom just put a score through that line on the form and the guy inputting it into the computer was like 'a dash?' You know, you're lucky your name didn't end up as Hyphen."

**~0~0~0~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up... Hollywood Week! :)

**Author's Note:**

> The whole premise of this story lends itself better to television since the music will be lost a little in the written word, but if anyone is actually reading this and who is musically talented and would like to get involved, I would LOVE a you-tube video or two of Jamie's version of the songs she covers in her American Idol adventure. Or the songs the Rogues of Rampart cover in their different style (imagine Mumford and Sons meets Ray LaMontagne meets Gaelic Storm meets Blue October...) or that any of the other contestants take on. Seriously folks, I am insanely jealous of musically talented people (one of which I am NOT) and would love to see your takes on the songs. Just send me a link and I will post it next chapter in case anyone else reading wants to see it. I have all the songs mentioned here in my You Tube playlist (username ffdeanstheman).
> 
> Also totally open to suggestions for songs to be sung by the contestants.
> 
> That said, more plot happens in this story OUTSIDE the competition than IN it, so it's really just an action drama with an American idol backdrop. This isn't much of an RPF since the judges don't have their own storylines and are mainly just there as their typical selves in their judge capacity.
> 
> Thanks for reading so far... I hope you enjoyed it enough to come back!


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